Wedding Night
Wedding Night
Part 1
They were already mid-ceremony when the picture sharpens: white aisle, late sun pooling warm across the floor-to-ceiling windows, a hush that makes each breath feel ceremonial. Dahlia’s veil floats like a sigh against her shoulders; Damian’s jaw is set in that steady way of his, sharp suit cut close, boutonnière pinned with almost military precision.
“I do,” Dahlia says, voice bright and unwavering.
“I do,” Damian answers, the corner of his mouth finally breaking into the smile he’d been holding back.
The rings slide home — gold against warm skin, metal catching a flare of light — and the crowd exhales as one. Annie stands to Dahlia’s left in a long, soft dress the color of still water, bouquet lifted. Lucas is at Damian’s right, a step off the groom in polish and posture, handsome but not fussy: tie slightly loosened from a rushed minute, hair one shade more disobedient than he’d planned. The officiant beams. “I present to you—”
Applause rises. The kiss is simple, genuine. Dahlia laughs into Damian’s chest when they turn to face the room, and Annie’s smile ignites with hers. Lucas claps Damian on the shoulder, two quick pats, pride and relief in the gesture.
Photos follow — first formal, then barely controlled chaos. The happy couple flanked by their favorite people. The four of them — bride, groom, bridesmaid, best man — gathered tight, shoulders touching, heads tipping together and apart as the photographer calls, “One more—just one more—okay, eyes here!” Dahlia’s train is adjusted, Damian’s cuff straightened; Annie leans in and Lucas leans closer, their smiles not quite leaving even when the camera drops.
“Perfect,” the photographer declares, and for a minute it really is.
The reception hums on the far side of the door: silverware, glass laughter, a band tightening a melody. Inside the small, bright space, Dahlia is half-dressed — underwear and a cloud of veil laid over a chair, her wedding gown hanging from a hook like the husk of a miracle they’ve already stepped out of. Annie kneels by an open garment bag, shaking free the sleek silk of a second dress.
“Lucas looked at you like a man walking past a bakery with an empty wallet,” Dahlia murmurs, grinning as she smooths lotion over her collarbones. Annie snorts, fluster creeping into her cheeks. “He’s just being polite.”
“Polite men don’t stare at your mouth like it’s an invitation.” Dahlia tilts her head as Annie brings the new dress over. “You two will be great.” Annie hesitates, then blurts it out. “I haven’t… kept up with my maintenance lately.”
Dahlia’s brows lift. “How long?”
“Two… maybe three months.” Annie replies, embarrassed. “I’m flat broke alright!”
Dahlia clicks her tongue. “You know your body needs it more than ever.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s just—” Annie’s shoulders slump. “Maybe tonight isn’t the night. Maybe I smile and let him dance and then I go home and… not ruin anything.”
Dahlia steps in close, thumb under Annie’s chin, lifting her face until their eyes meet. “You are not going to ruin anything.”
“I don’t have the confidence you do.”
“I didn’t, until I decided to. That’s the secret.” Dahlia’s smile softens. “Let me help.”
Before Annie can parse the shape of that promise, Dahlia’s hand trails down, gathers the skirt at Annie’s hips, and slides beneath. Cool fingers find warm heat through cotton; Annie stiffens on a gasp she tries and fails to swallow.
“Dahlia,” she whispers. It isn’t a protest.
“Shh.” Dahlia’s mouth is close to her ear. “Confidence.”
Annie meets her gaze, naked question in it. “Do you really want me? You’ll have Damian to yourself later.”
“Right now,” Dahlia says, palm cupping, middle finger pressing, “I want you to remember how desired you are.”
She turns Annie with practiced ease, pressing her gently into the wall, one of Annie’s arms guided behind her back and held there — not hard enough to hurt, exactly hard enough to make Annie breathe differently. Annie’s forehead tips to cool paint; Dahlia kisses the hinge of her jaw and then pushes her panties aside as her fingers slides in from the front, hooking up.
One finger first: slick heat, a testing curl. Annie shivers, weight sliding onto her toes. The second follows, then the third, Dahlia’s knuckles grazing as she sets a rhythm — in, out, in, out — with enough patience to let Annie rise to it and enough insistence to keep her from thinking too much. “More,” Annie breathes into the wall, the syllable caught on the edge of a moan. “Please… don’t stop.”
Dahlia’s free hand finds Annie’s hip and anchors it, guiding the angle. The room becomes small: the whisper of silk on silk, the soft thud of Annie’s back as she rocks, the breathy, helpless sounds she can’t keep quiet. Dahlia’s temple rests against Annie’s hair as she works her hand, crooking and pressuring until Annie’s hips buck into her with impatient, greedy pushes.
“That’s it,” Dahlia whispers. “You’re fine. See? You’re fine. You’re okay.”
Annie’s answer is a sound that’s nothing like words. Her knees threaten to give. She swallows a cry and feels it anyway, breaking up inside her — a stuttering rush that makes her breath hitch twice in quick succession, makes the next “oh—” come out on a tremble and then again, involuntary, a reverb of pleasure. She clutches at the wall with her free hand, fingers splayed, nails skittering against paint.
And then she moves.
Annie wrenches her pinioned hand free and reaches blindly back, pushing under the band of Dahlia’s panties. Touch lands, sure by instinct: two fingers, then three, sliding inside until the heat of Dahlia’s body takes them. Dahlia gasps sharply, her forehead thumping the wall next to Annie’s. “You’re—” Annie can only say what she feels. “You’re so wet.”
“So are you,” Dahlia answers, voice ragged with delight.
They find a rhythm together, messy and new, Annie’s hips driving back into Dahlia’s hand as Annie’s fingers curl inside her. Each unspools the other with the same clumsy grace: breaths synching, thighs trembling, little sounds tumbling into laughter and back into moans.
Annie comes first — a warm, rolling break that makes her whole body tighten and flutter, makes a gasp catch and repeat as if the room itself were echoing, and echoing, and echoing. The tremor jitters through her muscles, freezes and then smooths; she whimpers her lover’s name against the wall. Dahlia follows smoothly a heartbeat later, a low sound rising from her chest as her knees soften and she stifles the cry in Annie’s shoulder.
They sink together, sliding down the wall until they’re seated on the cool floor, legs tangled, dresses rucked up, Dahlia’s arms wrapping around Annie from behind. The door stays blessedly shut. The world on the other side keeps celebrating.
“You’ll be fine,” Dahlia murmurs into her hair, fingertip tracing little circles on Annie’s wrist. “You’re better than fine.”
Annie turns her head and finds Dahlia’s mouth with hers — a quick, grateful kiss. “Okay,” she whispers, the word steadier now. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dahlia taps her thigh. “Up. Let me get into this dress before they send a search party.”
They laugh as they reassemble themselves: panties adjusted, lipstick refreshed, the new dress pulled over Dahlia’s shoulders and smoothed into place. When they open the door, the corridor’s noise rushes in like surf, and they step into it hand-in-hand before letting go.
The reception is mid-spin by the time they return. Lights have gone softer; candles make tiny galaxies across linen. The band slides from something classic into something with a bright, quick heartbeat, and people surge toward the dance floor.
“May I?” Lucas asks, appearing at Annie’s elbow with that rueful half-smile that looks like he’s apologizing for wanting something.
“You may,” she says, surprised at how easy her voice comes.
He isn’t the clean line that Damian is; his tie’s already loosened again, his hair stubborn in a way that makes her want to smooth it and not smooth it at the same time. He pulls her in with the music, one palm warm at her back, the other catching her hand. They find the beat within a bar, eyes searching, both a little breathless for nothing to do with dancing.
“Did you have fun escaping with the bride?” he teases.
“She needed help with a zipper,” Annie says, deadpan, and his laugh lines spark like it’s the best joke he’s heard all night.
They sway, spin, draw back, and come together; her dress flares and settles; his hand firms when the floor gets crowded and loosens when space opens. Happy draws itself into the lines of their faces and refuses to move.
When the song slows, he steps closer, the world narrowing to his breath against her cheek and the edge of cologne at his collar. He hesitates, eyes flicking from her eyes to her mouth and back, a question he doesn’t quite push into words.
Annie answers first. She lifts onto her toes and kisses him — not a test, not a tease, but a sure, deep thing that says exactly what it means. The music swells, and someone somewhere whoops on their behalf.
She breaks the kiss with a smile that feels like a promise and lets her mouth graze his ear. “Come find me later,” she whispers.
When she steps back, he’s still smiling like he’s trying not to, which is the same as not trying at all. The song changes. Somewhere, Dahlia’s laugh rings across the room. Annie takes Lucas’s hand again, and they keep dancing.
Part 2
The reception had thinned to a handful of lingering relatives and half-drained glasses. Dahlia and Damian stood beneath the last of the camera flashes, smiling as guests pressed in for photos. Annie busied herself at the edges, gathering plates, smoothing tablecloths, helping Lucas stack abandoned chairs into neat rows.
When there was a pause between shots, Dahlia leaned toward her, voice pitched low. “Did you make your move yet?”
Annie’s face heated. “Sort of. When we were dancing, I told him he could… come by later.”
Dahlia gave her a look sharp enough to cut through the din. “Sort of isn’t enough. He needs to know it’s real.”
Before Annie could protest, another group of guests swept Dahlia and Damian back into the center. Annie stood awkwardly for a moment, then drew a breath and made herself cross to Lucas.
He was bent over the next table, sleeves rolled back, gathering candles into a box. He glanced up when she stopped beside him.
“Lucas,” she began, softer than she meant. “About what I said earlier… were you really interested?”
His smile was warm, easy, and the way he set the box aside told her everything before he spoke.
Relief trembled in her chest. She nodded quickly, half-shy. “Midnight, then. I should freshen up first.”
She excused herself with a promise to finish the last of the cleanup, then slipped toward the corridor. As she reached the hall, Dahlia caught her eye across the room and offered a brief, encouraging smile before turning back to her guests.
Annie let the warmth of it follow her all the way back to her room.
Annie slipped out of her dress, folding it carefully over the chair, and laid a black lingerie set across the bed. She stood naked before the mirror, smoothing her palms over her waist and thighs, turning slightly to check herself from every angle. Tonight had to be perfect.
She closed her eyes, focusing on the familiar warmth low in her belly, waiting for it to stir. Nothing.
Her brow furrowed. She tried again, holding her breath, willing it to catch the way it always had. Still nothing.
“This is weird,” she whispered. Her reflection looked back steady, unblinking, offering no answer.
Her mind flicked back, unbidden, to the afternoon—Dahlia’s hand slipping between her legs in a stolen moment, the sharp burst of pleasure that had lit her nerves then. It had worked. It had more than worked. So why not now?
She tried once more, harder, and felt only the same blank stillness.
A cold knot tightened in her chest.
The clock on the nightstand read 11:50.
With trembling fingers she abandoned the lingerie, pulled her robe around herself, and cinched the sash tight. She couldn’t solve it standing here. Ten minutes until midnight. Annie slipped into the corridor, heart hammering, searching for the door she knew she had to knock on.
Annie rapped lightly on Dahlia’s door and pressed her palm against the frame, hoping she was back in her room already. Ten seconds crawled by, each one dragging her stomach lower.
At last the bolts clicked, and the door opened to Dahlia’s familiar face, brows drawn. “What?” she snapped, sharp in a way Annie hadn’t expected. “You could’ve just pinged me, Annie.”
From behind her came the muffled sound of running water, the shower hissing alive. Damian’s voice carried out, casual: “I’ll take a shower first. You girls take your time.” The bathroom door swung half-shut again.
Annie’s throat tightened. “Can I… come in?” she asked meekly.
Dahlia sighed, but stepped aside. Annie slipped past, and the door shut with a soft click behind her. Dahlia folded her arms across her chest. She was wrapped only in a robe, nothing beneath, her wedding dress tossed in a heap at the foot of the bed with Damian’s clothes scattered beside it.
Annie clasped her sash tighter. “I need your help. It’s not working anymore.”
Dahlia stared at her. Then she exhaled, slow, unfolding her arms. “Sweetie, it’s my wedding night. I love you, but… I have to say I’m sorry.”
Annie’s eyes blurred. “Please. It might work for you. Can we try?”
Dahlia held her gaze a moment, weighing the plea, then let out a long sigh. Wordless, she loosened her robe and let it fall. Annie followed, trembling, until they both stood stark naked in front of each other.
For a heartbeat they hesitated, bare and mirrored. Then faint seams rippled across the lines of their pelvises, panels easing open with mechanical precision. From within, each of their sex modules slid into view.
They blinked back into focus, reached down, and pulled the devices free. For a moment they held them, then wordlessly extended hands and made the exchange.
Dahlia fitted Annie’s module into place first. The mechanism seated with a muted click. She straightened, unblinking, and announced flatly, “New device connected. Diagnostics normal.” Then her eyes softened again, warmth returning. “Well. It seems to be working for me.”
Annie pushed the other module into her own slot. It locked home without ceremony. She didn’t speak at first, only closed her eyes, waiting. Finally, she murmured, “It’s still connecting. Let’s hope it works.”
“It’s state-of-the-art,” Dahlia retorted lightly, tying her robe again. “Of course it works, sweetheart.”
She smiled, lifted her chin, and gave Annie a look of blessing. Annie hurriedly wrapped herself back in her robe, managing a worried smile before slipping out into the corridor once more.
Annie slipped back into her own room, heart still racing. The clock on the nightstand glowed 11:58.
A soft ping pulsed in her vision: <New device detected. Connection established.>
Relief flooded through her. She exhaled hard, shoulders sagging.
No more hesitation. She pulled the black lace lingerie onto her body piece by piece — the garter belt snug against her hips, the matching panties sliding into place, the bra framing her just as she had imagined it. In the mirror, she studied every curve and pose, the faint texture of lace against skin. She shifted her stance, lifted her chin, let herself believe she looked irresistible.
One quick test — a subtle thought, a coaxing — and heat bloomed instantly low in her belly. Her lips parted, damp already. It worked.
A knock startled her. She jolted, then scrambled for her robe.
“One second,” she called, tying the sash tight. She turned back to the mirror for one last check — hair smoothed, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Perfect enough.
She pulled the door open.
Lucas’s familiar face filled the frame, his smile soft. “Hey,” he said. “Can I come in?”
Annie blushed, pulse hammering, and stepped back, holding the door wide. “Yeah.”
She let him in.
He didn’t wait for the door to close. His hands found her waist, spinning her into a deep, eager kiss. She closed her eyes and met him with equal pressure, letting his warmth press against her. When they parted just enough to breathe, she smiled faintly.
“Can’t wait, can you?”
“Enough waiting,” he murmured, grinning as he slid the robe off her shoulders and examined her body.
“You look mesmerising...” he breathes, excited, as he pushed her gently backward toward the bed.
She landed on it with a soft bounce, hair shifting over her shoulders. In one fluid motion she unclasped her bra and pulled it off her chest, leaving her panties and garter belt on.
Lucas stripped his formal jacket and shirt, tossing them aside, then leaned over her, mouth finding hers again. His hands slid up to her full chest, fingers exploring, fondling, pinching lightly. A soft moan escaped her lips as he flicked a stiff nipple.
Her own hand slid down to his belt, unfastening it with a single practiced tug. She helped him work his pants down, then caught his shoulders and rolled their bodies until she was straddling him.
“Let me show you, what else is mesmerizing...” she purred.
She leaned in, pressing her breasts on his bare chest, tongue sliding back into his mouth, her hips rocking in slow circles so her covered mound dragged along the length trapped in his boxers.
Lucas moaned, then gently gripped her shoulders to push her back.
“I can’t wait anymore, Annie,” he breathed, tugging at her panties. She helped, sliding them away, then pulled at his boxers too.
Their eyes locked again as she positioned herself on top of him. She teased his tip again with the warmth of her entrance, this time bare, then she started to lower herself — only to freeze halfway as Lucas winced.
“Oh. It seems I’m not wet enough.”
Lucas blinked. “Want me to lick you?”
Fluster flickered across her face. Please not now. Please just work.
“No… let me fix this.” She shut her eyes and forced an override command. A sudden gush spilled from her slit, coating his head with too much wetness.
“That should do it,” she said, her voice smoothing back to seduction.
Lucas’s brows lifted, but he didn’t resist as she sank down on him in one greedy drop. She shut her eyes, settling fully onto him before she began to lift and drop her hips — steady, strong, relentless.
He met her thrusts with his own, groaning. “Oh, Annie… you pussy is so tight!”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she dropped forward, her head beside his, hips pounding in a relentless rhythm.
Lucas’s pace quickened, hips striking up into her in hard, rhythmic jolts as she pressed down. Her own bucking matched him, every impact driving his length to the base, her inner walls tightening in pre-programmed milking patterns. Pleasure data building in perfect sequence — but so did her heat load.
<Warning: pelvic actuator strain.>
Override. She willed as she forced the alerts aside, burying her face against his cheek, moaning louder, trying to sound human.
Stay human, she reminded herself silently, even as her lubrication chamber was already misfiring, coating him more than necessary. She closed her eyes, hoping the errors would fade away. Her moans continued as she felt Lucas’s tip tremble, the beginning of a flare.
Just a little longer. Please…
“Annie… Fuck… I’m gonna cum…” he groaned.
“Uhhh! Lucas! Ple-ase. C-cum. for. Me-e.” her words stumbled, a little too robotically.
Lucas’s tip twitched hard, triggering an ego-boosting rule for Annie to cum right before her partner does.
Her cheeks flushed immediately as her body tensed, thighs clamping. She let out a sharp breath that collapsed into a pre-programmed moan.
The processing spike hit before she could fully prepare — her control threads lagging, servo coordination slipping. An uncontrolled announcement fractured on the way out but wasn’t picked up by Lucas in the moment: “Er-r-ror… Mal-mal-mal-function…”
No…
Her climax detonated. Heat cascaded through her pelvis as every mechanism in her sex seized at once, then released, then seized again in chaotic pulses.
Her breath caught, eyes squeezing shut, trying to pass it off as raw ecstasy. But the timing was wrong, her hips jerking in uneven snaps, nothing like the smooth strokes she meant to show him.
Lucas groaned almost immediately. His already twitching cock started spurting inside her, the pressure flooding her inner cavity. Her control loop scrambled to compensate, milking him with stuttering pulses —too fast, too even — the kind no human could sustain.
<Warning: actuator desynchronization>
The sensation overwhelmed her: every sensory filament in her sheath firing at once, pleasure and system error tangled into a single unstoppable cascade. She clung to him out of reflex, but her body betrayed her. A sharp jolt ran up her spine, hips locking down on him in a crushing, involuntary clamp.
The scream came next — not fully under her control and much later than it should have. It started natural, then fractured into a perfect loop: “Ahhh—ahhh—ahhh—” repeating faster than her throat could move, each cycle identical. She felt helplessness as her higher systems begun collapsing.
Stop. Stop. Please stop…
But she couldn’t.
Her thighs stayed rigid, pinning him inside, while her upper body slackened, her breasts flattening under her weight against his chest. The world narrowed to the residual firing of her sex module, milking him in glitchy, desperate bursts even as her vision tunneled and her consciousness slipped.
<Warning: error cascade – emergency shutdown engaged.>
Then the crash hit — her internal bus cutting out, drives freezing mid-pulse, her world narrowing into a void.
She still felt Lucas moving against her for a moment, but she couldn’t answer — couldn’t move, couldn’t even send a signal to her own lips.
“Annie!?” His voice warped, distant, collapsing feed from her external mics. Her textile and audio sensors detected his presence but the data no longer mattered to a shattered mind.
<Unit DH-X62 shutting down.>
Her vision dimmed into static. Motor power dropped to zero. Her head tipped forward against his shoulder, limp. She was vaguely aware of him pulling back, withdrawing from her, but only as fragmented sensations.
“What the hell, Annie, are you ok?!”
A faint click echoed inside her abdomen as the failsafe unlatched. The panel opened with a quiet pop, exposing her inner chassis.
A sharp intake of breath from Lucas — then his voice, panicked and loud in the fading dark: “Holy shit! What the fuck are you?!”
Her body shifted abruptly — pushed — then the muted impact of carpet against her side. Limbs sprawled awkwardly. The feedback from her joints was gone; they were just coordinates in the dark now.
Her last registered data point before the blackout was the open panel at her abdomen, the reboot button inside blinking steadily, waiting for someone to press it.